"The Young Master's technique is improving. That dummy stood no chance."
"It was looking at me funny," Ji'an mumbled, emerging from the towel. She looked at the bright sky. "Hey, Wangchen."
"Yes?"
"Go change. Not the servant robes. The dark blue ones I gave you last week."
Wangchen paused. "Why? Are we receiving guests?"
"No," Ji'an grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "We're going out to play."
The capital city of the Empire was a sensory overload of the best kind. The streets were wide enough for four carriages to pass abreast, lined with buildings that boasted sweeping tiled roofs and crimson pillars. The air smelled of roasting meat, incense, and money.
Ji'an walked through the crowd with a swagger that screamed "Second-generation rich kid," fanning herself with a folding fan she'd picked up.
Wangchen walked a half-step behind her, his hand resting on the hilt of the sword she had "borrowed" from Zhaoyu's collection for him.
"Relax," Ji'an whispered, leaning back slightly. "You look like you're escorting a prisoner to execution. We're shopping."
"The streets are crowded," Wangchen murmured, his eyes scanning the crowd for threats. "Pickpockets. Assassins. Rival clans."
"Spices. Cooking oil. New shoes," Ji'an corrected. "Priorities, Little Puddle."
She led him not to the weapon shops, but straight to the Cloud-Silk Pavilion, the most expensive clothing store in the district.
"Young Master, we don't need—" Wangchen started to protest as she dragged him inside.
"Hush. You're my face," Ji'an declared. "If my attendant looks like a beggar, people will think I'm poor. Do you want people to think I'm poor?"
"You are a concubine's son with a limited stipend," Wangchen pointed out dryly.
"I have the General's apology money," Ji'an patted her heavy purse. "And I intend to stimulate the economy."
For the next hour, Ji'an treated the future villain like her personal dress-up doll.
"Try this one. Dark cyan. No, too gloomy. How about the white with silver embroidery? Yes! It brings out the 'ice-prince' vibe."
Wangchen stood before the copper mirror, wearing a set of robes that cost more than his entire village would earn in a year.
The white silk shimmered like moonlight. The silver thread caught the light, matching the cool undertone of his skin.
He looked... noble. He looked like he belonged in a palace, not a kitchen.
Ji'an stood behind him, looking at his reflection.
'Damn,' she thought. 'I'm straight, definitely, absolutely straight, but purely from an aesthetic standpoint? He's a masterpiece. If I don't save him, the world is losing a piece of art.'
"It's too much," Wangchen said, touching the fabric. "I'm just a servant."
"You're a cultivator now," Ji'an said, her voice dropping the joking tone. She reached out and adjusted his collar. "You have Flawless Spirit Root. Remember? Clothes like this... you'll get used to them. One day, you'll wear robes made of dragon silk."
Wangchen met her gaze in the mirror. "I only need robes that allow me to stand behind the Young Master."
Ji'an felt a twinge in her chest. It was guilt. He was so loyal, and she was just trying to prevent the apocalypse.
"Pack it up," she told the shopkeeper. "And three sets of the black training gear. And new boots. The kind with the hidden knife compartments."
After the clothing store, they hit the Thousand Treasures Pavilion. This was where the real cultivators shopped.
Ji'an bought a high-grade spatial bag, a small, embroidered pouch that could hold a room's worth of items. She tossed it to Wangchen.
"For the luggage," she said.
Wangchen caught it. Spatial tools were rare. Even inner disciples of great sects fought over them.
"And now," Ji'an stopped in front of a display case. "We need to replace that rusty piece of iron on your back."
Zhaoyu's sword was fine, but it was generic. Ji'an's eyes were drawn to a slender, elegant blade resting on a piece of blue velvet. The scabbard was made of white shark skin, and the hilt was wrapped in silver cord.
"That," the shopkeeper said, seeing her interest, "is Winter's Sigh. Forged from cold-iron found in the Northern Glaciers. It's not a heavy sword. It's fast. Sharp. And it resonates with Ice-attribute Qi."
Ji'an looked at Wangchen. "Try it."
Wangchen approached the sword. He hesitated, then reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the hilt, the air in the shop dropped ten degrees. A faint hum resonated from the blade.
He drew it.
Shing!
The blade was translucent, like a shard of ice. It felt weightless in his hand, an extension of his own arm. His Flawless Spirit Root purred in recognition.
"I'll take it," Ji'an said, slapping a stack of spirit stone bills on the counter.
Wangchen sheathed the sword, the click echoing in the shop. He looked at Ji'an, his expression complicated.
"You are investing too much," he said quietly as they walked out. "I will never be able to repay this."
"Sure you can," Ji'an said, stopping at a street vendor to buy two sticks of candied hawthorn. She handed one to him. "Protect me when we get to the Sect. I hear the kids there are real headaches."
Wangchen took the sweet stick. He looked at the sword at his hip, then at the spatial bag, then at the person biting into a sugar-coated fruit with no regard for image.
"I will," he vowed. "Even if it costs my life."
"Don't die," Ji'an said with a mouthful of fruit. "Dying is a breach of contract."
The day couldn't end perfectly, of course. This was a cultivation world; conflict was as common as breathing.
As they made their way toward a famous restaurant for lunch, a commotion blocked the street. A carriage, gilded in gold and pulled by two spirit-beasts, had stopped. A young man in gaudy purple robes was shouting at a street vendor.
"You blinded my beast!" the man screamed, whipping a riding crop at an old man selling vegetables. "Your cart scratched the carriage! Do you know who I am? I am the nephew of the City Lord!"